


Cutthroat Kitchen

by volunteerfd



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reality Show
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-29
Updated: 2015-09-28
Packaged: 2018-04-23 22:03:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4894045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/volunteerfd/pseuds/volunteerfd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chefs Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham, Frederick Chilton, and Abigail Hobbs compete with each other on Cutthroat Kitchen. Will Frederick Chilton survive the potato skin round without (potato) skin? Would Chef Lecter actually cook chicken pot pie?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cutthroat Kitchen

Will Graham was a step, maybe two, above a line order cook, but here, he was Chef Will. He was Chef Will with a weird jacket embroidered with Cutthroat Kitchen on his chest. It was a promotion that would last less than a day--however long it took him to bid, cook, and be eliminated.

To his right was Tall Smirker and to his left was Small Smirker. They were, respectively, Chef Hannibal and Chef Frederick, surely a demotion from Chef Lecter and Chef Chilton but preferable to Will’s private nicknames for them. Chef Hannibal Lecter stood ramrod straight, hands clasped behind his back. He was a celebrity in the culinary world, made a sanguinaccio to die for. Tall and powerfully-built, Chef Hannibal Lecter could have easily bled into the mainstream a la Gordon Ramsay. If he chose to. He would not.

Small Smirker Chef Frederick/Chef Chilton was used to good posture, too. Trying to make a presence, trying to show his respectability and good breeding--overcompensating for his height, Will guessed. Presently he was over-overcompensating, trying to gain an extra six inches to match Lecter’s height and effortless clout. He kept looking past Will to Lecter as if asking himself Am I at his level yet?

“Would you like to switch?” Will remarked, tired of being no more than a barrier. This ruffled Frederick. He’d been found out. Plus, losing a mid-sized buffer between him and Lecter would just accentuate the size difference. Frederick humphed and looked straight ahead. Out of the corner of his eyes, Will saw Lecter’s smirk twitch.

Another reason Frederick would not want to switch: He was standing next to an 18-year old girl; at least he was tall compared to her. If it weren’t for Chef Abigail Hobbs, Will was certain he would be eliminated first. Then again, Abigail Hobbs was a culinary wunderkind, and her victory would be good for ratings. She’d given the obligatory talking head: “I might be YOUNG but I don’t want anyone treating me different just because I’m a GIRL.” She’d rolled her eyes before and after she said this, but on television, it would read as earnest. 

“Would you like to switch?” would be the pre-show banter because Host-Chef Alton Brown appeared, giving the chefs the rules of the game that they had already been over backstage. He had to reiterate for new viewers: cooking, bidding, elimination. Will zoned out. How many new viewers does a show like this get, anyway?

“The first dish you’ll be making is...potato skins.”

Frederick Chilton: Potato skins! Simple. Starch, grease, cheese and bacon....I personally wouldn’t eat them, of course, but I’m aware of them, yes.

Hannibal Lecter: I have never had potato skins, no. I understand that they are like small baked potatoes, is that correct?

Will Graham: Sure. I make them all the time. 

“I’m sure you all know how to make them, so go get your ingredients!”

They were supposed to run to the pantry, but none of them did. Abigail put the most energy in her sprint, and Frederick looked ready to make a mad dash until he noticed Hannibal sauntering. Strolling.

It made Will question how the hell they wound up on this show. Both Hannibal and Frederick seemed like they would take themselves too seriously for this. Will was cajoled and needled until Alana filled out and submitted his application behind his back and got him an interview. He hoped the interview part would have eliminated him, but no. They called him back and told him to report for filming.

“Cut, cut, cut!” Alton shouted. “Come on, guys, really? Behind those gates is your ticket to victory, an oasis of food that you only have thirty seconds to sort through, and you’re going to take a nice leisurely walk? How the hell did you even get on this show?”

Take two. Will jogged, Frederick sprinted. Abigail shoved him out of the way. Hannibal speed-walked for which the others were all grateful: he had the longest legs of any of them.

Potato skins. Potatoes, obviously, cheese, sour cream, bacon...for the hell of it, Will threw a bunch of other meats and cheese in there.

“Thanks, guys,” Alton muttered. “Now, you have all your nice little ingredients to make your dish. All the tools you could possibly imagine. Oh, wait, what’s this? Ah, a potato masher. Excellent for mashing potatoes. Soooo convenient. Unless you have to wear it on your dominant hand while you’re cooking, which you can force one of your opponents to do.”

“Five hundred!” Chilton said, bouncing on his feet.

“Five hundred. Do I hear six?”

“Six,” Will said with a shrug. Odds were he wasn’t going to win, anyway. Might as well drive up the price. 

“Fifteen hundred!” Chilton said. Will didn’t mention he wasn’t going to bid past $1,000--and a $900 jump in bidding was obscene.

“Seventeen,” Hannibal said, in his careless, light Eastern European accent.

“Two thousand!” Chilton’s voice almost cracked. He was the only one who didn’t realize his opponents had no interest in the potato masher. They were only driving up the price.

“Three!” Abigail joined in.

“Five--thousand--dollars!” 

“Going once, going twice...Here is your hard-won potato masher, chef. Give it wis--”

It was in Hannibal’s hands before Alton could finish his sentence.

“Thank you, Chef Chilton, but may I recommend that next time, you give this to someone who is not ambidextrous?” Hannibal made a show of deciding which hand to put it on.

“Let me give you a hand putting it on,” Alton offered.

“There’s no need,” Hannibal said, somehow strapping it to his hand by himself. Chilton turned pale.

“Next...if you bid on this item, you can take away one of your opponent’s potatoes and replace them with these day-old, dried out French fries! I mean, it’s got the potatoes, it’s got the skin. You could work with that, right?”

“Five hundred!” Abigail started.

“Five hundred going once, going twice...Really? I could understand Chef Chilton needing to save his allowance, but Chef Graham? Chef Lecter? No? Sold!”

Chilton immediately began tearing the fries apart lengthwise, digging the potato out and separating the skins, all while glancing quite obviously at Lecter. Lecter was taking his time, humming to himself.

“You said that the potato masher would go on his dominant hand, right? Well, since both of his hands are dominant, shouldn’t he have to wear a potato masher on both?”

Shameless! Will thought. He could tell that Chilton wanted to ask it sooner, but his pride held him back. Well, not for long.

“Good point, Chef Chilton. Let me see,” Alton threw open a drawer, barely even glancing inside. “Sorry, that’s my only spare potato masher in this whole studio. If you want to give me another five thousand, though, I can have one of my interns run out and get you another one.”

“I’m sure your interns have better things to do,” Chilton muttered, tossing the french fry skins into the deep fryer.

Frederick: It’s supposed to be a challenge, but I look at it as an opportunity for evolution. What is a potato skin but a potato and skin and accoutrements, all of which I have? So I will deep fry the coating of the fries and proceed with the inside as usual. I think I will call it “deconstructed potato skins.” [chuckles at his originality]

Abigail So I have my potatoes, bacon, sour cream, jalapeno, onions...and then I realize I forgot cheese!

Will: I’m just making potato skins. I don’t have any sabotages.

Hannibal: I finished early. I am arranging the plate.

“Alright, chefs. Three...two...one...hands up.”

Chef Alton Brown introduced their judge, Chef Jet Tila. Alana had told Will about all the judges. He tried to remember what she said. There was a mean British one and an Italian woman....Jet Tila was neither. Maybe he was the nice guy?

“Chef Lecter, tell your tale,” Alton instructed.

“I have prepared a chorizo-pancetta potato skin with a mascarpone-potato filling.”

“Wow, um, OK,” Jet said. “To be honest, I don’t even want to eat this. This is art.” 

“Thank you, Chef.”

“Don’t worry. It’s captured on cameras for posterity. Dig in.”

Jet Tila took a bite, and then his face broke into a look of sheer bliss. Someone would get eliminated, but it would not be Chef Lecter. Will looked at his own plate, a little sloppy, a little bland, but other than his skills, he had no reason to lose. Chilton’s place should have been a greasy, grizzled mess but somehow he made it look OK.

“Wow. Wow.”

“You still need to try the others.”

“Wow,” Jet said one more time, as Alton physically ushered him to Will’s plate. Not a good sign. “Well, this definitely looks like a potato skin.”

He took a bite, and Will could see his cooking drag Jet Tila back to reality.

“Not bad. Good. It’s definitely a potato skin. Good.”

He willingly went to Frederick, who cleared his throat.  
“This is a rustic deconstructed potato skin platter. The skin is a little bit crispier than usual. You can use them as a chip.”

“‘Rustic deconstructed.’ That means you had a couple of sabotages, didn’t you,” Jet said. Chilton’s face fell. “That being said, not bad. I like your take on it, no matter what forced you to do it.”

“Thank you, Chef.”

“Chef Hobbs, tell your tale.”

“I made a vegan--uh, an almost vegan potato skin.”

“Almost vegan?”

“Well, there’s sour cream...and bacon…There’s just no cheese.”

Chef Tila raised his eyebrow at her as he took a bite. “Not bad. Your seasonings are good, all the components work together. Well, the components that are there. That being said, the cheese is sorely missing.”

“So, Chef, you had three potato skins and one religious experience...Now it’s time for you to decide which chef will not be moving forward to the next round.”


End file.
